Chapter 7 - The Man Buried as My Father Was a Stranger
The forensic report arrived three hours later.
The body in the car had been identified as Samuel Voss through dental records.
But the DNA had never been compared.
Not properly.
I stared at the document.
“No.”
Dante stood beside me.
“This could be another lie.”
I looked at him.
“Everything has been a lie.”
He nodded.
“That's why we'll verify.”
A private lab confirmed the impossible.
The DNA from the unidentified remains was not my father's.
It belonged to an unknown male.
I read the result three times.
Then I started laughing.
Not because anything was funny.
Because grief had spent eighteen months building a house inside me.
And suddenly someone had ripped the roof off.
My father might be alive.
Or he might have disappeared so completely that only a ghost of him remained.
Dante found a bank account opened under a false name.
A series of payments had been made for eighteen months.
The destination was a rural town in Pennsylvania.
We drove there the next morning.
An old farmhouse stood at the end of a gravel road.
Dante parked.
I got out.
My hands shook.
Inside, the house was empty except for a kitchen table.
On it was a photograph.
My family.
My father.
My mother.
Me at nine years old.
On the back was today's date.
I began crying.
Then I heard footsteps.
A man appeared in the doorway.
Older.
Thinner.
Gray hair.
A scar above one eyebrow.
But the eyes were unmistakable.
“Alina.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Dad?”
He stopped.
For a moment neither of us moved.
Then he crossed the room.
I hit his chest with both hands.
“You died.”
“I know.”
“You let me bury a stranger.”
“I had no choice.”
“You always had a choice!”
He closed his eyes.
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
I pulled away.
“Everybody says that.”
He looked at Dante.
“Then you must know what happened.”
Dante nodded.
“Most of it.”
My father sat.
His hands were shaking.
“Lucien discovered the investigation.”
“You were investigating him.”
“Yes.”
“And you staged your death?”
“I had help.”
“Whose?”
“Nicholas.”
I looked stunned.
“He arranged the replacement body.”
“Nicholas saved you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he loved your mother.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
My father looked at me.
“Your mother and Nicholas had been friends since childhood.”
Dante lowered his eyes.
My father's voice softened.
“They were never lovers. Your mother loved me. Nicholas loved her. He protected her anyway.”
I sat down.
Everything twisted again.
“Then why did everyone make Nicholas look guilty?”
“Because Lucien wanted a scapegoat.”
My father explained the entire structure.
Lucien had created the criminal network.
Nicholas had eventually discovered the worst parts.
My father had joined him.
Matteo Marchetti had agreed to dismantle the operation.
But before they could act, Lucien moved first.
Matteo died.
Then my mother.
Then my father disappeared.
Dante listened in silence.
“When did my father know?”
“He knew enough.”
“And my uncle?”
“He never forgave Matteo for choosing a cleaner life.”
Dante's jaw tightened.
My father looked at him.
“You remind me of him.”
“I hope that's good.”
“It is.”
I cried again.
My father reached across the table.
“I am sorry.”
I held his hand.
For years I had imagined touching him one last time.
I hadn't imagined it could happen after eighteen months of mourning.
Dante stepped outside to give us privacy.
Later, I found him sitting on the porch.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He smiled faintly.
“Me neither.”
I sat beside him.
“Your family is impossible.”
He laughed.
“That has been established.”
“Why did you come with me?”
“You saved my life.”
“That doesn't explain everything.”
He looked at me.
“No.”
A long silence passed.
Then he said:
“When I first saw you at Lucent, you looked terrified.”
“I was.”
“But you still walked toward me.”
“I didn't know anything about you.”
“You knew enough.”
“I knew your reputation.”
“And you still came.”
I smiled.
“I thought you might be the only person powerful enough to survive the truth.”
He looked at me.
“Now I think you were.”
We returned to New York with my father.
The public investigation exploded.
Lucien faced charges.
Elias entered witness protection.
Nicholas agreed to testify.
Marco stayed beside Dante.
But one problem remained.
The legitimate businesses.
The trust.
And Dante's twenty-four-hour deadline.
At midnight, Dante called a board meeting.
Everyone expected him to sign the succession papers.
Instead, he slid them across the table.
“I will not inherit my family's criminal history.”
The board members looked frightened.
“I will inherit the legitimate businesses.”
“And the rest?”
“Shut down.”
There were protests.
Threats.
Resignations.
Dante did it anyway.
He dismantled the networks.
Closed the shell companies.
Returned stolen funds where possible.
Sold the shipping assets tied to corruption.
Then he turned to me.
“What are you doing now?”
I looked at the ledger.
“Finishing my father's work.”
“How?”
“Building a forensic consulting firm.”
He smiled.
“You'd be good at it.”
“I know.”
He laughed.
It was the first time I had seen him look young.
Almost normal.
Then my father walked into the room.
“There's one thing left.”
Everyone turned.
He held up one final page.
A name.
Not Lucien.
Not Nicholas.
Not Elias.
A woman.
Clara Marchetti.
Dante's grandmother.
Dead for twenty-six years.
Dante frowned.
“She's been dead longer than I was alive.”
May you like
My father nodded.
“She was the one who started it.”
